Witch Clan: Matriarchs by John Stormm (best pdf ebook reader .TXT) 📕

any help from me at all. To me, you are a bent nail to be straightened out and made useful. Take that pendant off and bury it in the dirt at your feet.”

He tried to resist for a moment. He struggled with himself a while longer and then the pendant’s cord fell away and it dropped into the palm of his hand. Looking up at her, he kneeled in the dirt and buried it.

“We will have a longer talk later, as a family,” she said. “But meantime, you should go see about getting us some help searching for the boy out here. There’s no telling what kind of shape we’ll find him in.”

“I’m sorry, Ma,” he said.

“I never thought you were behaving like yourself, Son,” she said. “Now, you get us that help, and I’ll keep searching out here.”

She reached into her deep apron pocket and pulled out a little packet of salt, which she sprinkled over the spot Dave buried his arrowhead. The ground smoldered beneath it.

“What is that stuff you’re using?” he asked.

“Just simple table salt,” she said. “It has that effect on fighting corruption and decay. This thing was to rot your brains and make you see and think what the brujo wanted. Now, get going and call for help.”

Dave dashed back for the house. The sun was sinking in the direction of the neighborhood, and night would be falling soon. Emma stilled herself to feel for her grandson. Breathing in, she could smell the sagebrush, and blood. The sound of distant drums and Native voices chanted and sang. He may be wounded, but he was dancing somewhere out there. Sage kept bad spirits at bay, so he would be with friends, no doubt. Night had fallen, and a full moon rose quickly to light her way. The sound of drums and singing filled her mind as she moved ahead, towards the distant mountains. Far behind her, the lights from numerous flashlights spread out across the field. A lone coyote sat in the moonlight, on the edge of a gulley.

“You wouldn’t happen to be watching a young colt dance, now would you?” she asked, walking forward to the edge.

The coyote winked its pale eye at her and trotted off looking for game. At the bottom of the washout, a boy sized figure danced around a large rattlesnake, shaking a lance with an eagle feather attached near the tip. A fat tarantula looking like an animated shadow in the sand, danced a comic counter beat to the boy.

“It’s long past time for all good boys to pack it in and return to their families,” she announced to the bizarre spectacle below her.

All motion stopped for a heartbeat. The spider scurried into the underbrush for cover. The snake slithered away to its hole, and the boy leaned heavily on his lance and looked up.

“Grandma,” he said, and slumped to the ground in a dead faint.

* * *

It was nearly noon before Johnny awoke in his bed, surrounded by his step dad, the deputy sheriff, a doctor who insisted upon shining a flashlight in his eyes and more importantly, his grandma.

“It seems as if the effects of the peyote has worn off with no apparent side effects other than a little dehydration,” the doctor said. “Keep him away from that stuff, and I’m pretty sure he’ll live to be older than all of us.”

“I’m sorry, Doc,” Dave said. “I really thought it was something that would help him. I didn’t mean him any harm.”

“Well, let that be a lesson to you,” the doctor said, not unkindly. “Don’t go accepting hoodoo cures from witch doctors without first checking with a real doctor.”

“Hey, what’s this?” Ted asked, looking at the eagle feather clutched in Johnny’s hand. “Where’d you find an eagle feather, buddy?”

“Raven gave it to me,” he said.

“Well, I hate to tell you this, my friend,” Ted said sadly, “but the law says you can’t keep this. It’s an endangered bird. Only Indians are allowed to have them.”

“I’ll take that,” Emma said, “I am the daughter of an Iroquois chieftain. I will keep it for my grandson, who is the great grandson of that same chief.”

“That will do just fine then.” The deputy smiled and handed her the feather. They kept Johnny filled with soup and fluids the rest of that Sunday. He would be up and about for his last few days of school before summer vacation. Meanwhile, Emma took a little time to get re-acquainted with her new family. Dave sat in attendance as she spoke with them both.

“Sweetheart, you know I’ve always loved you,” she said to Lorry. “Never once did I ever insist that you be anything that was not in you to be. When you chose not to follow your sisters in the craft, I loved you no less for it and respected your choices.”

“Dave, I was impressed that you could walk so boldly into a ready made family and take on that kind of responsibility,” she said. “Dave, Lorry is no witch, and what you think of witches is not particularly flattering to those who are. Hurting a little boy in ignorance is still hurting him. But in all fairness to the both of you, Johnny is a little beyond your experience, and he needs to be loved and respected for who he is too. He surprises me all the time, but I’m a bit better educated about him than either of you would be. I can deal with him on his own terms, while you two now have this very lovely, very normal daughter who will need every bit of your undivided attention. Willard and I feel almost lost without our boy. His cousin, Leona, misses him too, along with all his old friends in the neighborhood. How about he stays with me, and I raise him and teach him even as I have with you and your siblings? You visit him, he visits you and we are all one happy family and nobody gets stressed beyond the measure they can bear. I want all of us to have a happier future.”

“I would have asked you, Mom,” Lorry said. “I just felt like I was failing as a mother.”

“What would you think,” she said, “of a mother who had sent her son to the finest boarding school money could afford, to secure him a solid future? You know, if little Linda starts showing any witchy traits, she can foster during the summers like Leona does now, and her big brother will be there to help her through it.”

“Point taken, Mom,” Lorry replied, smiling.

“Ah, Mom?” Dave interjected. “About that powder out in the field, that was really just salt and nothing magickal?”

“Oh, my son,” she said laughing. “Who ever told you that salt wasn’t magick?”

Who indeed! It was as if the entire world had been given an entire education and religious system that taught them they were connected to nothing else in the fabric of nature than to what could be counted upon only their five dogmatic senses. They didn’t really experience their own world, but walked through it in a warm, fuzzy American dream about hot apple pie and a Cold War.

END OF BOOK ONE OF WITCH CLAN SERIES



Imprint

Text: John Stormm
Images: John Stormm
Editing: John Stormm and Terri Valentine
Publication Date: 06-21-2012

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
Sometimes, a little boy's greatest hero is his grandma.